The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year-II

by Jonathan Strahan

  She said, "There's a coherent state that can be prepared for a quark-gluon plasma in which virtual black holes catalyse baryon decay. In effect, you can turn all of your fuel's rest mass into photons, yielding the most efficient exhaust stream possible." She recited a long list of technical details. The claimed baryon decay process didn't actually exist, but the pseudophysics underpinning it was mathematically consistent, and could not be ruled out by anything the Noudah had yet observed. She and Anne had prepared an entire fictitious science and technology, and even a fictitious history of their culture, precisely for emergencies like this; they could spout red herrings for a decade if necessary, and never get caught out contradicting themselves.

  "That wasn't so hard, was it?" the intruder gloated.

  "What now?"

  "You're going to take a trip with me. If you do this nicely, nobody needs to get hurt."

  Something moved in the shadows, and the intruder screamed in pain. Joan leapt forward and knocked one of the knives out of his hand with her tail; the other knife grazed Sando's membrane, but a second tail whipped out of the darkness and intervened. As the intruder fell backwards, the beam of his torch revealed Surat and Rali tensed beside him, and a pick buried deep in his side.

  Joan's rush of combat hormones suddenly faded, and she let out a long, deep wail of anguish. Sando was unscathed, but a stream of dark liquid was pumping out of the intruder's wound.

  Surat was annoyed. "Stop blubbing, and help us tie up this Tiran cousin-fucker."

  "Tie him up? You've killed him!"

  "Don't be stupid, that's just sheath fluid." Joan recalled her Noudah anatomy; sheath fluid was like oil in a hydraulic machine. You could lose it all and it would cost you most of the strength in your limbs and tail, but you wouldn't die, and your body would make more eventually.

  Rali found some cable and they trussed up the intruder. Sando was shaken, but he seemed to be recovering. He took Joan aside. "I'm going to have to call Pirit."

  "I understand. But what will she do to these two?" She wasn't sure exactly how much Rali and Surat had heard, but it was certain to have been more than Pirit wanted them to know.

  "Don't worry about that, I can protect them."

  Just before dawn someone sent by Pirit arrived in a truck to take the intruder away. Sando declared a rest day, and Rali and Surat went back to their shelter to sleep. Joan went for a walk along the hillside; she didn't feel like sleeping.

  Sando caught up with her. He said, "I told them you'd been working on a military research project, and you were exiled here for some political misdemeanour."

  "And they believed you?"

  "All they heard was half of a conversation full of incomprehensible physics. All they know is that someone thought you were worth kidnapping."

  Joan said, "I'm sorry about what happened."

  Sando hesitated. "What did you expect?"

  Joan was stung. "One of us went to Tira, one of us came here. We thought that would keep everyone happy!"

  "We're Spreaders," said Sando. "Give us one of anything, and we want two. Especially if our enemy has the other one. Did you really think you could come here, do a bit of fossicking, and then simply fly away without changing a thing?"

  "Your culture has always believed there were other civilisations in the galaxy. Our existence hardly came as a shock."

  Sando's face became yellow, an expression of almost parental reproach. "Believing in something in the abstract is not the same as having it dangled in front of you. We were never going to have an existential crisis at finding out that we're not unique; the Niah might be related to us, but they were still alien enough to get us used to the idea. But did you really think we were just going to relax and accept your refusal to share your technology? That one of you went to the Tirans only makes it worse for the Ghahari, and vice versa. Both governments are going absolutely crazy, each one terrified that the other has found a way to make its alien talk."

  Joan stopped walking. "The war games, the border skirmishes? You're blaming all of that on Anne and me?"

  Sando's body sagged wearily. "To be honest, I don't know all the details. And if it's any consolation, I'm sure we would have found another reason if you hadn't come along."

  Joan said, "Maybe I should leave." She was tired of these people, tired of her body, tired of being cut off from civilisation. She had rescued one beautiful Niah theorem and sent it out into the Amalgam. Wasn't that enough?

  "It's up to you," Sando replied. "But you might as well stay until they flood the valley. Another year isn't going to change anything. What you've done to this world has already been done. For us, there's no going back."

  7

  Joan stayed with the archaeologists as they moved across the hillside. They found tablets bearing Niah drawings and poetry, which no doubt had their virtues but to Joan seemed bland and opaque. Sando and his students relished these discoveries as much as the theorems; to them, the Niah culture was a vast jigsaw puzzle, and any clue that filled in the details of their history was as good as any other.

  Sando would have told Pirit everything he'd heard from Joan the night the intruder came, so she was surprised that she hadn't been summoned for a fresh interrogation to flesh out the details. Perhaps the Ghahari physicists were still digesting her elaborate gobbledygook, trying to decide if it made sense. In her more cynical moments she wondered if the intruder might have been Ghahari himself, sent by Pirit to exploit her friendship with Sando. Perhaps Sando had even been in on it, and Rali and Surat as well. The possibility made her feel as if she were living in a fabricated world, a scape in which nothing was real and nobody could be trusted. The only thing she was certain that the Ghaharis could not have faked was the Niah artifacts. The mathematics verified itself; everything else was subject to doubt and paranoia.

  Summer came, burning away the morning fogs. The Noudah's idea of heat was very different from Joan's previous perceptions, but even the body she now wore found the midday sun oppressive. She willed herself to be patient. There was still a chance that the Niah had taken a few more steps towards their grand vision of a unified mathematics, and carved their final discoveries into the form that would outlive them by a million years.

  When the lone fusion ship appeared high in the afternoon sky, Joan resolved to ignore it. She glanced up once, but she kept dragging the tomography unit across the ground. She was sick of thinking about Tiran-Ghahari politics. They had played their childish games for centuries; she would not take the blame for this latest outbreak of provocation.

  Usually the ships flew by, disappearing within minutes, showing off their power and speed. This one lingered, weaving back and forth across the sky like some dazzling insect performing an elaborate mating dance. Joan's second shadow darted around her feet, hammering a strangely familiar rhythm into her brain.

  She looked up, disbelieving. The motion of the ship was following the syntax of a gestural language she had learnt on another planet, in another body, a dozen lifetimes ago. The only other person on this world who could know that language was Anne.

  She glanced towards the archaeologists a hundred metres away, but they seemed to be paying no attention to the ship. She switched off the tomography unit and stared into the sky. I'm listening, my friend. What's happening? Did they give you back your ship? Have you had enough of this world, and decided to go home?

  Anne told the story in shorthand, compressed and elliptic. The Tirans had found a tablet bearing a theorem: the last of the Niah's discoveries, the pinnacle of their achievements. Her minders had not let her study it, but they had contrived a situation making it easy for her to steal it, and to steal this ship. They had wanted her to take it and run, in the hope that she would lead them to something they valued far more than any ancient mathematics: an advanced spacecraft, or some magical stargate at the edge of the system.

  But Anne wasn't fleeing anywhere. She was high above Ghahar, reading the tablet, and now she would paint what she read across the sky for J
oan to see.

  Sando approached. "We're in danger, we have to move."

  "Danger? That's my friend up there! She's not going to shoot a missile at us!"

  "Your friend?" Sando seemed confused. As he spoke, three more ships came into view, lower and brighter than the first. "I've been told that the Tirans are going to strike the valley, to bury the Niah sites. We need to get over the hill and indoors, to get some protection from the blast."

  "Why would the Tirans attack the Niah sites? That makes no sense to me."

  Sando said, "Nor me, but I don't have time to argue."

  The three ships were menacing Anne's, pursuing her, trying to drive her away. Joan had no idea if they were Ghahari defending their territory, or Tirans harassing her in the hope that she would flee and reveal the nonexistent shortcut to the stars, but Anne was staying put, still weaving the same gestural language into her manoeuvres even as she dodged her pursuers, spelling out the Niah's glorious finale.

  Joan said, "You go. I have to see this." She tensed, ready to fight him if necessary.

  Sando took something from his tool belt and peppered her side with holes. Joan gasped with pain and crumpled to the ground as the sheath fluid poured out of her.

  Rali and Surat helped carry her to the shelter. Joan caught glimpses of the fiery ballet in the sky, but not enough to make sense of it, let alone reconstruct it.

  They put her on her couch inside the shelter. Sando bandaged her side and gave her water to sip. He said, "I'm sorry I had to do that, but if anything had happened to you I would have been held responsible."

  Surat kept ducking outside to check on the "battle," then reporting excitedly on the state of play. "The Tiran's still up there, they can't get rid of it. I don't know why they haven't shot it down yet."

  Because the Tirans were the ones pursuing Anne, and they didn't want her dead. But for how long would the Ghahari tolerate this violation?

  Anne's efforts could not be allowed to come to nothing. Joan struggled to recall the constellations she'd last seen in the night sky. At the node they'd departed from, powerful telescopes were constantly trained on the Noudah's homeworld. Anne's ship was easily bright enough, its gestures wide enough, to be resolved from seven light-years away—if the planet itself wasn't blocking the view, if the node was above the horizon.

  The shelter was windowless, but Joan saw the ground outside the doorway brighten for an instant. The flash was silent; no missile had struck the valley, the explosion had taken place high above the atmosphere.

  Surat went outside. When she returned she said quietly, "All clear. They got it."

  Joan put all her effort into spitting out a handful of words. "I want to see what happened."

  Sando hesitated, then motioned to the others to help him pick up the couch and carry it outside.

  A shell of glowing plasma was still visible, drifting across the sky as it expanded, a ring of light growing steadily fainter until it vanished into the afternoon glare.

  Anne was dead in this embodiment, but her backup would wake and go on to new adventures. Joan could at least tell her the story of her local death: of virtuoso flying and a spectacular end.

  She'd recovered her bearings now, and she recalled the position of the stars. The node was still hours away from rising. The Amalgam was full of powerful telescopes, but no others would be aimed at this obscure planet, and no plea to redirect them could outrace the light they would need to capture in order to bring the Niah's final theorem back to life.

  8

  Sando wanted to send her away for medical supervision, but Joan insisted on remaining at the site.

  "The fewer officials who get to know about this incident, the fewer problems it makes for you," she reasoned.

  "As long as you don't get sick and die," he replied.

  "I'm not going to die." Her wounds had not become infected, and her strength was returning rapidly.

  They compromised. Sando hired someone to drive up from the nearest town to look after her while he was out at the excavation. Daya had basic medical training and didn't ask awkward questions; he seemed happy to tend to Joan's needs, and then lie outside daydreaming the rest of the time.

  There was still a chance, Joan thought, that the Niah had carved the theorem on a multitude of tablets and scattered them all over the planet. There was also a chance that the Tirans had made copies of the tablet before letting Anne abscond with it. The question, though, was whether she had the slightest prospect of getting her hands on these duplicates.

  Anne might have made some kind of copy herself, but she hadn't mentioned it in the prologue to her aerobatic rendition of the theorem. If she'd had any time to spare, she wouldn't have limited herself to an audience of one: she would have waited until the node had risen over Ghahar.

  On her second night as an invalid, Joan dreamed that she saw Anne standing on the hill looking back into the fog-shrouded valley, her shadow haloed by the Niah light.

  When she woke, she knew what she had to do.

  When Sando left, she asked Daya to bring her the console that controlled the satellite dish. She had enough strength in her arms now to operate it, and Daya showed no interest in what she did. That was naive, of course: whether or not Daya was spying on her, Pirit would know exactly where the signal was sent. So be it. Seven light-years was still far beyond the Noudah's reach; the whole node could be disassembled and erased long before they came close.

  No message could outrace light directly, but there were more ways for light to reach the node than the direct path, the fastest one. Every black hole had its glory, twisting light around it in a tight, close orbit and flinging it back out again. Seventy-four hours after the original image was lost to them, the telescopes at the node could still turn to the Cataract and scour the distorted, compressed image of the sky at the rim of the hole's black disk to catch a replay of Anne's ballet.

  Joan composed the message and entered the coordinates of the node. You didn't die for nothing, my friend. When you wake and see this, you'll be proud of us both.

  She hesitated, her hand hovering above the send key. The Tirans had wanted Anne to flee, to show them the way to the stars, but had they really been indifferent to the loot they'd let her carry? The theorem had come at the end of the Niah's three-million-year reign. To witness this beautiful truth would not destroy the Amalgam, but might it not weaken it? If the Seekers' thirst for knowledge was slaked, their sense of purpose corroded, might not the most crucial strand of the culture fall into a twilight of its own? There was no shortcut to the stars, but the Noudah had been goaded by their alien visitors, and the technology would come to them soon enough.

  The Amalgam had been goaded too: the theorem she'd already transmitted would send a wave of excitement around the galaxy, strengthening the Seekers, encouraging them to complete the unification by their own efforts. The Big Crunch might be inevitable, but at least she could delay it, and hope that the robustness and diversity of the Amalgam would carry them through it, and beyond.

  She erased the message and wrote a new one, addressed to her backup via the decoy node. It would have been nice to upload all her memories, but the Noudah were ruthless, and she wasn't prepared to stay any longer and risk being used by them. This sketch, this postcard, would have to be enough.

  When the transmission was complete she left a note for Sando in the console's memory.

  Daya called out to her, "Jown? Do you need anything?"

  She said, "No. I'm going to sleep for a while."

  Dead Horse Point

  Daryl Gregory

  Daryl Gregory (www.darylgregory.com) is an exciting new writer who published his first story in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction in 1990. Since then he has published a handful of science fiction and fantasy stories, mostly in Asimov's and F&SF. His first novel, Pandemonium, will be published later this year.

  The story that follows, one of two very fine stories Gregory published during the year, is a James Tiptree Jr. influenced ta
le of love, friendship, and responsibility.

  Twenty-three years of silence and all it takes is one call. Not even a conversation, just a thirty-second message on her voicemail. Come now, Julia's voice says. Come now before it's too late. From anyone else it would have sounded melodramatic, but Julia never exaggerates; she's always careful with her words. Venya books a flight to Utah the next morning.

  Later she'll think, wasn't it just like Julia to say it like a command. As if Venya had no choice but to come.

  The park ranger tells her where to find their campsite but the RV is locked, nobody home. She sits in the rental car for an hour with the engine on and air conditioning blasting, reading park maps and informational pamphlets and squinting out at the hard sunlight, until she sees the two figures walking down the campground road toward her. They look like they've been on a long hike. Kyle's shirt is tied around his waist and his chest shines with sweat. Julia, following in his wake, wears hiking shorts and a webbed belt, plastic water bottles at her hips like six-guns. Both of them walk head down, lost in thought.

  Venya steps out of the car but it's another minute before Kyle looks up and sees her. At first the only expression on his face is exhaustion, but then he recognizes her and puts on a smile, becoming the winning boy she met decades ago.

  "Oh my God," he says, loud enough for her to hear, and laughs. He glances behind him at his sister but she doesn't look up.

  Kyle reaches Venya and holds up his hands. "I can't hug you, I'm too sweaty!" he says, but Venya steps in and hugs him anyway. The last time she saw him he was a pale, hyper kid of twenty. He's in his mid-forties now, but still tanned and fit, hair grown to messiah-length and sun-streaked. Only his face hints at his age, and that is masked by his wild smile.

  "I can't believe it," he says. "How on earth did you find us?" He steps out of the way. "Julia, it's Venya."